Volume 156 — RHYMES OF RANK.

Vice-Admirals command a base; Their forms blend dignity with grace. You never see the smallest trace Of levity upon the face Of one who wears a Vice's lace. For Admirals to romp and race Or frolic in a public place Is held to be a great disgrace; I do not think a single case Of this has happened at our base. The Commodore, the Commodore Is very popular ashore; He can relate an endless store Of yarns which scarcely ever bore Till they are told three times or more. The ladies young and old adore This man who bathed in Teuton gore And practically won the War; But once, a fact I much deplore, A General was heard to snore While seated near the Commodore. The Captain dwells aloof, alone; He has a cabin of his own; And should the smallest nose be blown, Though softly and with dulcet tone, In earshot of this sacred zone The very ship herself would groan. Yes, Captains (though but flesh and bone Like little snotties, be it known) Are best severely left alone. Commanders are a stern-eyed folk Who may or may not take a joke; It really isn't safe to poke Light fun at any three-ringed bloke; You may be sorry that you spoke. Their ways are proud; they sport the oak; They are not tame enough to stroke; I greatly dread these grim-eyed folk. Lieutenants of the R.N.V. Were born and bred on land, not sea, And ancient mariners like me With sly grimace and winks of glee Would watch them when the winds blew free, Or send them down a cup of tea. But soon their deeds became their plea For standing with the Big Navee In equal fame and dignity: While even Subs. R.N. agree They're better than they used to be, These Looties of the R.N.V. Sub-Loots are nothing if not sports; The nicest girls in all the ports Declare they are the best of sorts And useful on the tennis-courts. In gun-rooms, where their rank resorts, They bandy quips and shrewd retorts, And swig champagne, not pints but quarts. I said at first that they were sports.